


Pavlov is a Liar

by SammysGirl666



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, Stripper Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 21:58:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5886865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SammysGirl666/pseuds/SammysGirl666
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's been keeping a secret from Dean and, by coincidence, the older hunter finds out about it. He's not exactly displeased with what he sees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pavlov is a Liar

Silence.

Silence always proceeded the main course. Quiet was the appetizer, the bated breath and hungry stares, salivating mouths, whistles whetted by the bar peanuts and pretzels. Anticipation was the appetizer.

Dean felt it the second the lights went down.

A hushed quiet took the room and this was one of those gay strip clubs, where it was kind of burlesque and the clientele was all regulars. Dean wasn’t a regular but he was here for the night, because he’d wanted a good beer, a really good one, one he couldn’t find in a normal strip club. So he came here and they had draft beers on tap. He had sat at the bar and politely rejected advances from the scantily clad twinks serving frilly drinks.

The music, a low pulsing beat, made his skin vibrate and his head hum. Loud, but loud in that way that seemed quiet. Then it stopped and his ears rang and it got really quiet.

Silence.

Already a dimly lit place, it got almost pitch black when the rest of the lights went out. A few knowing, enthusiastic cheers and some hushed whispers rife with curiosity led into total silence, as if the MC was waiting for the place to be dead quiet before speaking.

Anticipation, Dean thought, was the best aphrodisiac a man could be given.

He felt it too, in the dark and the quiet. Pavlov might say it was just a response from having frequented places where, when the lights went down, the best things happened. Dean wasn’t sure, just knew that there was that same antsy feeling in his stomach, that same eagerness that had him swiveling his head to the stage.

The MC, who’d been almost gratingly enthusiastic before every act was dressed differently now. The dress and the heels were now a suit and loafers. Dean cocked his head and when the MC spoke, his voice was deep and low, in stark contrast to the high breathiness from earlier in the night.

Anticipation curled in Dean’s gut, and Pavlov was laughing in his grave.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” The MC said, enunciating, leaving the audience, Dean included, hanging off his every word. “It’s that time of night again. I’d give her a long, extravagant introduction, but you know she doesn’t like those. So without further ado, Samantha.”

Dean expected cheers but there were none. The newcomers clapped but the regulars simply waited and the music started, real soft and real slow. The anticipation in Dean’s gut became arousal by default as a spotlight struck center stage, highlighting the pole that other men had been grinding and twirling upon all night.

Then she walked out. Hushed whispers erupted in the crowd and Dean felt the anxious excitement turn his gut over, his eyes eating up her silhouette as she slowly made her way to the pole. When the light hit her, Dean gasped. He would recognize those cheekbones, those eyes, anywhere even under makeup and highlighted in black. It should have sent up some alarm, but his heart sped up and he licked his lips. The anticipation was full-fledged arousal now. Pavlov wasn’t laughing anymore.

Samantha wasn’t like the performers before her. She had no issues with her masculinity, evident in the lack of a wig. She wore a long trench coat and her face was done up in earth tones and soft pink lipstick that made Dean’s tongue poke out between his teeth. His heart was pounding now, his mind empty as the music became louder and more bass heavy.

She moved with a grace that her predecessor’s lacked, smiling coyly at her audience but swaying with a confidence won by many times on the stage. Dean wondered about that but only vaguely as she bared one shoulder and then the other and then spun around before dropping the trench coat entirely.

Again, another defiant show of her masculinity. She wore no bra, only lace panties and stilettos, simple in her presentation, but decadent in the way she gyrated her hips. Dean had been observing the crowd’s reactions before but now it was just him and Samantha, alone in a dark room as she wrapped those familiar long fingers around the pole and hefted herself up off the ground.

Calling her a girl was a ploy, playing her up as a drag queen instead of a stripper. But a crowd favorite was a crowd favorite, and “she” could have walked onto stage in a cowboy hat and spurs and Dean was sure no one would have argued over semantics. He liked the panties though, he had to admit, and the heels.

Mile long legs stretched on even longer as she performed gymnastic like stunts on the pole and she was no longer smiling coyly at the crowd, but leaving her body with the beat and the music. Dean couldn’t look a way, so fixated on her that he’d somehow gotten closer to the stage without fully realizing it. There were hands, too close, trying to slip dollars here and there but she shimmied away and let the money float to the floor.

She was fluid, like water flowing over the side of hill, unwittingly beautiful. Dean wasn’t ready for it be over, wasn’t ready for the houselights to come back up or for the music to return to its normal buzzing hum. It all happened so abruptly. Samantha was there, a goddess in the light, and then it was over and she was collecting bills from the stage as she hustled away and disappeared.

The MC came back, skirt and heels back in place but Dean ignored her and snuck back into the darkening hallways of the backstage. He dodged the bouncers and found the dressing rooms where gussied up, dressed up muscled twinks were flitting back and forth, smeared makeup and broken heels, and petulant whining dominating their topics of conversation. Dean ignored all them and scoured their numbers for who he was looking for.

There was no thought, no lead up. He didn’t consider any of the consequences or questions, found his target and pounced, dragging a delicate wrist into a private dressing room and crowding a long, smooth body against the wall.

“Dean?” Sam questioned. He was still in the panties. The stilettos were unbuckled, hanging loosely off of strong, taught calves. “I thought I told you not to come by on Friday nights. I thought you were in Texas.”

“Hadn’t checked up on you in a few weeks,” Dean explained, shrugging as he ran his fingers over rough lace. “Figured you wouldn’t mind, didn’t know you were keeping secrets from me, Sammy.”

Sam had always had a good poker face. Dean had taught it to him. If Dean hadn’t walked into this club on this night, he might never have known. He supposed he could thank God for coincidences if he believed in holier things. But nothing was as sacred to him as the curve of Sam’s cock, trapped against a hairless pelvis by deep blue lace and elastic. He got to his knees.

“It’s just a few extra bucks,” Sam gasped as Dean mouthed his panty-clad erection. Dean hummed, earning him another gasp and then yanked the panties down until Sam’s hard cock was freed. He pressed a kiss to the tip and then gave Sam a dark look.

“You could earn a few extra bucks by being a cashier at 7-11,” Dean growled. “Don’t lie to me, little brother. You like it. You like the attention. I saw you out there. You get twice the money for half the effort. Don’t even have to put a bra on or play up any of that drag queen shit. You’re the bottom bitch around here and you love it.”

Sam flushed, trapped his lip between his teeth and said nothing. He didn’t need too. He said everything with the way his knees trembled. Dean didn’t know how he felt about it, the stripping, wondered if it equated to self-flagellation the way picturing other men watching Sam got him worked up. Jealousy simmered under his arousal and he desperately ached to leave purple mouth-shaped bruises everywhere and then ask Sam to perform. With Dean’s marks all over him.

That would be a show worth watching, an entrée; the crème de la crème of performances. Worth every inch of anticipation felt by the crowd, Pavlov be damned.

“Never thought I’d have to come here,” Dean said, “and remind you whose bottom bitch you really are.”

In one fluid motion, he stood and spun Sam around to face the wall. The younger man caught himself on his hands and looked back at Dean over his shoulder, face flushed and eyes hooded. He stuck his ass out a little further and Dean grinned, almost malicious in the way he sank back down to his knees and bit into the flesh of Sam’s ass cheek, ignoring the scratchiness of the lace panties.

He reached up and yanked them down, so that they were pulled tight around Sam’s thighs, probably leaving a devastatingly red mark that Dean would relish in knowing he left.

“Always wanted to perform for you, big brother,” Sam said.

Those weren’t words that younger siblings said to older siblings, not in that tone, that sexed up, lust-thick voice that sounded as if he was already choking on a load of come. But God, did Dean love to hear them.

Dean grabbed a bottle of lotion from the vanity next to them, popped it open and slicked up his fingers. He didn’t want to wait, didn’t want to make Sam wait either. It had been too long already and after the pleasant surprise of Sam’s show, Dean was more than ready for it.

Two fingers were probably too much too fast but Sam pushed back into it anyway and Dean liked the tightness, the way his fingers almost didn’t fit until they did, until the skin and muscle loosened up. He kept at it, just long enough for a third one to be worked in with the same hastiness that the other two had gone in.

And Sam really was Dean’s bottom bitch because he pushed back every time, winced but never shuffled away, groaned but never said no.

Keeping with the tone of the night, Dean pulled his fingers free and kicked Sam’s mile long legs apart. The undone stilettos jingled with the movement and Dean hiked down the blue lace panties a couple more inches until he heard the fabric tear and then he sank inside of Sam in what would have been one swift motion.

But the tightness made it a few aborted, jerky motions and he pressed his lips softly to Sam’s shoulder in an unstated apology. Sam backed into it though, took every painful inch and moaned sweetly when Dean bottomed out.

Dean replaced the lips he had on Sam’s shoulder with teeth and bit down as he fucked into the younger man. Sam slammed his hands against the wall and cried out. Every stroke inside of Sam was exalted brilliance, the paramount of all things good and desirable in Dean’s life. The penultimate pleasure, a feeling which even the seraphs of heaven failed to define.

It was Sam, pure Sam, open raw and honestly Sam, spread out on Dean’s cock like some bit of sacrament given to the sinners of the world, men like Dean with bloody hands and crooked teeth. Another bite, another cry, and then he was soaking Sam’s channel with his jizz, slicking it up and making it wet and warm, a sweet aftershock of pleasure as he nailed Sam’s prostate.

He reached around, gave a few cursory tugs to Sam’s hard cock and shivered at the overstimulation of the younger man squeezing around him as warm come leaked over his hand. He pulled his hand away and brought it to his mouth, licking the come up and smirking at the whimper it earned him from Sam.

“That was fast,” Sam muttered.

“You complaining?” Dean asked, pressing a kiss to Sam’s shoulder.

Sam turned fully and pulled Dean into a slow, sweet kiss of greeting. _Hello, I missed you, it’s great to see you again._

“I’ve got another set in an hour. We can go back to my dorm after that.” Sam said, planting his hands on Dean’s chest as he kicked off his stilettos and stepped out of the panties. He picked them up off the floor and shoved them into Dean’s hand. Dean closed his fist around them thoughtlessly and put them in his pocket. For when he had to be back on the road.

“Give ‘em a show, Sammy,” Dean said. Sam smirked and winked at Dean.

“I always do,” he said before walking out of the room, probably to go get ready for his next set.

Dean walked out of the dressing room and down the hall, going back into the main room where the crowd had either thickened or thinned, he couldn’t tell. When he sat back at the bar, the lights went down again and another hush stole over the room, not as quiet as before and not as dark. A main event, but not the true main dish.

That would always be Sam.

He felt the anticipation of the crowd but felt no urge to turn his head to the stage, even as the MC spoke sweet and slow. Anticipation; but for Dean, there was none. He reached into his pocket and fingered the lace he found there and wondered if Pavlov wasn’t a big fat liar. 

**Author's Note:**

> More writing at veganweecest.tumblr.com


End file.
